


The Man and the Devil

by alephdara



Series: Not doing their job [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Astronomy, Canon Compliant, Food, Gabriel the donkey, M/M, Music, Musical duel, Pre-apocanope, Wing hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23923048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephdara/pseuds/alephdara
Summary: Aziraphale roams the salt flats collecting and singing stories, until he hears that the Devil himself is beating the local musicians at accordion duels.This is my first fic, and somehow I crammed there all the things I love: food, music, stars, stories, and our silly boys.Have fun!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Not doing their job [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070633
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	The Man and the Devil

Northeast of Riohacha, 1972.

The horizon loomed, flat and eternal. A straight razor frontier between the bluest blue and sand so pure it was just two shades above snow, bright enough to dazzle and hot enough to scorch. Luckily for Aziraphale, a wide brim woven hat on his head and a faithful donkey beneath him made his ride a tad easier, and maybe just a bit faster than walking.

At his left, he was leaving behind the setting sun which threatened to turn the sky all colors, reminding him that it'd still take him a couple hours to get to the nearest town, where there would be food, drink, and music, and even something extra if the townspeople liked his act. He hoped they got mangoes. And plantain. And maybe some shrimp. He fondly patted the neck of the beast, “Let's do it, Gabe, it's not too far. You're doing great”.

Gabriel wasn't the original name of the donkey, who had been called “Pepito”, “Smelly Beast”, “Walk, You Fucker”, and “Stupid Ass” enough times to not give a shit what he was called as long as the burden was light, the pace was slow, and the food was edible. He had been Gabriel for some months now, which he didn't mind since the burden was the lightest (some would say ethereal), the food was good, the treatment nice, and the joy of obeying his angelic master was... well, ineffable. It's not like donkeys have a wide spectrum of adjectives.

***

There wasn't shrimp, but the goat casserole was more than enough to make up for it. There was even some goat jerky and a ton of plantain for the ride. Gabe wouldn't complain about the extra weight, he ate and drank his fare and now paced idly out of town under a million stars. Life was good.

Aziraphale, on the other side, was not so content. During his time in the area, he had learned about its secretive people, the proud Wayúu, their jealousness of their culture and their distrust of foreigners, specially white, blond, blue eyed ones, who usually came to steal land, salt, coal, and women, and left naught but misery behind. It took a lot for them to see that this one didn't came to steal, but to share. He listened to their stories and turned them into music. Not some foreign music, but their own music, playing it back at them with one of their own accordions, a golden and baby blue monstruosity with a hundred buttons and a tartan strap. With eyes that saw what was truly there, ears tuned to the desert wind, and minds open to the magic of nature, they feared and delighted in the melodies coming from the instrument, soon speaking about music spirits made of sand and sea.

'I am but a simple man' he assured them, much to their amusement. Francis “The Man”, they called him, and kept listening in awe at the sung stories from the towns down the road to give him in return, as an offering, some new stories to sing around. They could forgive his weird accent (both on his speech and his music) and his obviously ethereal background because he was entertaining and never ever tried to spend the night.

This time was different. With furrowed brow Aziraphale recalled their voices, a bit slurred by the drink, asking him, begging almost, to not leave town until sunrise. That never had happened before. Usually, when he announced his leave closing midnight, they embraced him and waved him goodbye, blessing him with their own gods and whatever part of the harvest they could afford. He never rejected the blessings (She didn't object, at least out loud) nor the food, although once he had to politely ask for the live goat to be taken back, and they only relented when he accepted a bunch of woven shoulder bags and a gallon of homemade liquor in exchange. He kept the nicest bag and the liquor and traded the rest along the way.

Tonight they were sad, worried, scared, even. 'The Devil's around, roaming the salt plains,' they argued, 'playing impossible tunes at midnight and trapping within a black accordion the souls of those who dare listen.' They casted respectful doubts on the effectiveness of his foreign deity and insisted on bestowing some charms upon him when not even the promise of a freshly caught shrimp breakfast could bend his will (on their behalf, it made him Doubt a little).

The Devil trapping souls inside of an accordion. That was ridiculous. As if keeping souls out of the basement was any good for Hell's numbers. And, wasn't it supposed to be about temptation and free will, anyway? Besides, accordions weren't exactly fit for soul containment and transport, it would definitely ruin the tuning, reflected the troubadour giving a reassuring pat to his own instrument, securely tied to Gabe's rump. No, there was no soul trapping here. More likely, all this was the work of some demon trying to pull a pride temptation on the most accomplished musicians of the area. In that case, he wouldn't have anything to fear (not that he was afraid of any demon, mind you), he wasn't even that good an accordion interpreter to be tempted into pride, he just liked the stories.

If he were home, he'd have suspected certain force of darkness would be behind these tempations. But no, that was impossible. He was halfway around the world and there was no way... No, it would probaby be one of the others. Dagon, maybe. They liked fish, and there was a great variety in the waters beyond the salt flats, but Dagon wasn't very music-inclined. Paimon liked music, didn't they? Well, yes, but they were too important and too busy to come upstairs just to mess people around. No important demon, then. Probably one of the disposable ones, poor things, sent to the desert to pick on souls.

He lifted his head to the sky, trying not to think much of the demons, least of all feel sorry for them. He wasn't supposed to feel nice things for the adversary, even if love was his job description. Instead, he decided to marvel at the stars over his head, failing at finding most of the usual constellations. The Big Dipper was finally over the horizon, but still too low to be comfortable, or to be of any use to find the rest of the stars he barely remembered. Behind him was a tail of the Milky Way. This wasn't the hour or time of the year to see it in its full glory, but it still showed a bit, in a view impossible from the higher latitudes back home.

There was music in the stars, he recalled Isaac Newton once saying.

There certainly was music now. Every one of Aziraphale's senses was overwhelmed by the beauty around him. The twinkling colors of the stars (Colors! Haven't seen those in a while) and the glitter of the salt pits nearby almost brought him to tears, the night breeze ruffled his hair, bringing the salty smell and the soft roar of the close but unseen sea to him. The Universe was singing a simple, yet delicate symphony just for his pleasure. Even the opportunistic bray of Gabriel seemed to add to the atmosphere and made Aziraphale chuckle a bit.

“Do you like it here, too? It is quite nice.”

Gabriel brayed again, louder and longer this time.

“Oh, don't be rude. We'll set up our hammock soon, and then you can sleep for as long as you like.”

The music of the cosmos was surrounding him, the virtuosism of nature filling his heart with joy.

Wait a second, was that real music?

So soft he still wasn't sure he wasn't imagining it, the desert air blew in his ear the slow, longing notes of an accordion. He urged Gabe forward, drawn by the surreal music, in which he thought he recognized some of the forbidden chords of medieval scholars.

Upon getting closer, the notes became clearer, changing into a dissonant melody, menacing, if he had to say something about it. So the unknown musician had seen him first. Well, it was rude not to greet this talented and educated stranger.

With a smirk, Aziraphale reached Gabe's rump, loosening his own instrument. Pulled the tartan strap over his head, not bothering to remove his hat to do so (and regretting it instantly), and opened it, the small leather straps clicking as he loosened the safety buttons.

He risked a few optimistic notes.

_Hello?_

A discordant (and certainly quite complex) version of his own melody came back to him, with some menacing forbidden chords added, for a good measure.

_What are you doing here, alone, at midnight?_

Under some low, skinny trees far ahead, a lump in the ground seemed darker than its surroundings, slightly moving against the wind. Aziraphale used his knees to guide Gabe towards it while playing a longer, happy tune.

_Isn't this a lovely night? We can share it._

The figure in the dark stirred. The answer was even more aggresive and rebellious than the first one, notes running faster than thought, enticing yet scary, discordant yet somehow vibrating and flowing with rhythm.

_If you're looking for trouble, you found it. If you weren't, too bad for you, you found it._

I'm not scared of music, thought Aziraphale. But, just in case he was dealing with a real demon and not a very talented prankster, he threw a live grenade at them, just to show how serious he could be.

_The hills are alive with the sound of music..._

A groan came from the lump in the ground.

“Oh, that's just cheating, angel.”

“Crowley?” Happiness and confusion fought for the front seats on his face. At the end, annoyance shoved them aside and took the first row. “You're the one scaring these poor people?”

“Well, yeah, mm, sort of, not my fault they keep coming here to get their asses handed to them.” Aziraphale, finally close enough to the line of trees, glanced at a blanket under Crowley where some shapes were scattered. Was that a whisky bottle?

“So this is your demonic work.” Definitely not a question.

Crowley stood. A black Stetson covered his head and a lean, mean looking accordion, black and red, hung from his neck by a strap whose snakish design competed with the loose curls of his hair for shoulder space. He wasn't wearing his usual sunglasses, and his eyes gleamed under the starlight, making something wiggle inside the angel's chest. He certainly looked like he could scare some townspeople around.

“Ngg, not very demonic, if you ask me. Downstairs got into the music duelling fashion. Again.” He rolled his eyes and boredly reclined against the closest tree, hip cocked and teasing smile. “As if they hadn't had enough seeing Ligur embarrass himself in Georgia last time.”

Crowley dislodged himself from the slender tree and circled the donkey at a respectful distance. “Care to introduce me to your mate?”

“Gabriel, this is Crowley.” The donkey brayed aggresively and tried to kick the demon, who was laughing his ass off far away from the hooves' reach. He was getting attached to the name, and wasn't going to let anyone to make fun of it. It was a gift from an angel, after all. “No nonsense, please. He's my friend and I will not have you being rude to him”. Crowley wasn't sure which one the scolding was meant for. Knowing the angel, probably both of them.

Aziraphale dismounted and caressed soothingly the donkey's neck while the demon wiped some tears off.

“How 'bout you? Got bored of your bookshop?”

“Goodness, no!” huffed the angel as he led Gabe to the tree and tied him up. “And this isn't work, either. I read some accomplished writers from around here and decided to come and get a few more of their books.”

“And how the hell did you end up in the middle of the desert, playing an accordion at people?”

“It was the stories, if you must know. There was so much magic in them, you couldn't appreciate them properly in the city. And one story led to the other, and...”

“... and the food.”

A guilty, yet smug expression crossed Aziraphale's face. “Well,” he justified himself. “You can't truly appreciate local colour without having the complete experience.”

Crowley smirked. Aziraphale couldn't be completely sure of it, since the demon was facing the other way, crouching over his blanket, doing something. And the moonless night barely let him see anything. And he got a bit distracted by the way the tight pants hugged his anatomy. And he was supposed to be securing his accordion to the donkey's rump, not looking at a demon's arse. But he was sure Crowley was smirking nonetheless.

“This is your lucky day, then.” said the demon, theatrically wide arms presenting the blanket, now plainly under the open sky.

Neatly arranged on the blanket next to the discarded accordion, Aziraphale saw the shapes from before, now clearly a wide assortment of fruits, cured meats, wrapped buns, and the hard, salty cheese the townspeople churned that made you rethink your life choices before you inevitably reached for the next bit. And yes, that was a whisky bottle, next to a couple of unidentified ones. He took an uncertain step towards it, feeling very tempted and just a tad sinful.

“C'mon, angel. Let me show you something.”

Without waiting for his answer, Crowley splayed himself over one side of the blanket, leaving a wide space for the angel, stretched his arms and laid his head over them, facing the night. He let go a relaxed sigh and a soft smile that did weird things to Aziraphale's chest. The angel sat down next to him, hugging his knees, not daring yet to lie all the way down. What he did dare, though, was to reach for a mango, ripe and juicy, sweet as the starry night before him.

“I like to come over here from time to time,” mused the demon, as if talking to himself. “Can't see them from home.”

Aziraphale saw something else in his starlit face. A sort of longing, a hidden sadness, a touch of nostalgia. He wanted to reach out, place his hand over the demon's chest and soothe whatever was disturbing him. He shuddered at the thought.

“Hey, no need to get cold” misunderstood the demon. And then, with a ponderous motion that startled the dozing Gabe, Crowley let his wings out.

Dark and lustrous, the well-groomed feathers seemed to reflect the stars above, making Aziraphale dizzy. They looked warm and inviting. He caved against his better instincts, tossed the mango pit and laid down, delicately resting his head on the feathers near the demon's shoulder. The wing folded and cradled him, protecting him from the night breeze.

“This night sky is so confusing. I can't find anything besides the Big Dipper, and only bits and pieces half of the time. It's just too low”, whined the angel. “It's still beautiful, even if I don't know what I'm seeing. Completely useless to guide me at night. Honestly, most of the time I just trust Gabe will take me safely to the next town.”

“That's because you never get to see the Southern stars from London.” The demon's voice was soft and conforting. “They're the best.”

Aziraphale wondered what made some stars better than others, all of them being giant spheres of burning matter. He remembered, before the Beginning, how pleased She was when they were completed. How much She loved them. Maybe he was too distracted with the wonders he found on Earth, tiny and fleeting, to focus on the timeless beauty beyond the clouds. He wouldn't blame himself. Humans lived so short lives, and created such amazing things. Their art, their stories, their food... its variety so intoxicating...

Crowley interrupted his musings with an offer of a slice of yucca bun, paired with salty cheese. He always seemed to know what the angel was thinking about.

“Let me show you. See those stars over there, making a curve? That's the Centaur.” Aziraphale followed the slender arm, sinewy muscles coming from the rolled up sleeve, long fingers pointing low at the Southern horizon. “The bright one at the bottom is Alpha Centauri, closest neigbour, there. Only it's not just one, but three stars. Good planets over there.”

“Planets?”

“Of course! Did you think other stars didn't have? Waste of space if they didn't. But don't you worry. Our rock here is still Her favourite.”

Crowley reached for the whisky bottle, short and fat. Took a hearty swig and passed it to Aziraphale before moving on with his tour.

“Right next to it is Beta, also three stars together. A lot of them are paired, or in bunches. I think She didn't want them to be on their own.”

Aziraphale raised the bottle to his lips, smiling in surprise at the smell. It was real whisky, instead of the sweet local brew he was half-expecting. Glass bottles were expensive, so the Wayúu stored their beverage in whichever container they could get, earning it the nickname “borrowed body”.

“How did you get real whisky?”

“That? Smugglers, obviously.” said Crowley dismissively. “You can get pretty much anything knowing the right people around here.”

“The right people? How come you know 'the right people', hiding here in the desert?”

“Ngk”, said Crowley. “Work? Oh, c'mon, angel, we're stargazing, not delving into my questionable activities. Now drink your whisky and let me talk.”

The angel drank directly from the bottle and spitefully reached for the bag of sun dried shrimp before leaning back on his friend's wing.

“Where was I? Ah, yes, the Cross. Just at Beta's right, see? You can follow the lenght of the mast to find the South cardinal point. That way you don't need to trust that beast.”

“Gabriel's been good company.” The donkey's ears twitched at the mention of his name, but he kept dozing undisturbed.

“This is the best bit”, continued Crowley around a mouthful of Aziraphale's goat jerky. Sneaky demon. “Keep going right, to those not so bright stars over there. See the tiny cloud? That's Eta Carinae nebula. I helped build that one.”

Aziraphale's angelic vision showed him something amazing. Clouds of gas swirled and danced before his eyes, shooting streams and collapsing vortexes, just on this side of nuclear fusion. Life a cool inferno the nebula changed shape and density anywhere he looked. He could see the tattered remains of dead stars, teeming with new, heavy atoms, already coalescing into new clusters, ready to begin their life anew as second-hand balls of fire. He saw tiny clumps of water and carbon drifting between them, growing with the sweeped gas and dust, clashing with each other, breaking apart and regrouping in different shapes. He saw the promise of life inside them.

He didn't notice the silence until it was heavy in the air.

The demon at his side was looking at the nebula with a soft expression. The lines of his face almost dissapeared, his high brows glittering like stardust in the night, golden eyes dark and warm, thin lips slightly open, unguarded.

“Absolutely beautiful”, breathed the angel.

“Time of someone to notice”, laughed Crowley. “Put a lot of work on it.”

Soon Eta Carinae set down, and the big bulge of the galactic center rose up, as did the conversation. The whisky ran out, but was promptly followed by two nice bottles of the sweet “borrowed body”, which Aziraphale found better and better with each sip. Some of the cheese and buns were gone with the booze when the sky started to turn pink and the roosters faintly crowed in the nearer towns. Gabriel shook his ears, unfazed by the still talking and laughing angels (one Fallen).

Crowley stretched under the lighter sky. “Y'know what, angel, I'm going home. This music duelling is a lark. I'm just writing a report on humiliated musicians and leave it like that. It'll still be better than Ligur's.”

“I miss home, too”, reflected the angel. “I think I'll do one more round, singing to the people the story of how I thwarted their musical Devil, and call it a day.”

Crowley glared at him. “Really?”

“What? They need to know they can travel safely from now on.”

“You cheated.”

Aziraphale stood up, and primly tried to streighten up his desert-wrinkled shirt.

“After I encountered you, you stopped torturing these fine people. I'd call that an accomplished thwarting.”

The demon couldn't hide his smirk as he donned his Stetson and slanted it.

“You're a real bastard, I hope you know that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fic inspired by a real myth (Francisco el Hombre, if you want to Google it), because who hasn't had a musical duel with the Devil?  
> Not that it's necessary, but this is set sometime around the 70's, at the Guajira desert, in the northest part of South America, around March. You can really see a lot of stars from there. The food, music, booze, and people can still be found there. The smugglers, too.
> 
> I'm @all-seeing-aleph at Tumblr, just in case.


End file.
